


The Squire With Healing Hands

by You_Hamburgled_My_Heart



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:35:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24746911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/You_Hamburgled_My_Heart/pseuds/You_Hamburgled_My_Heart
Summary: Jon returns to Castle Black and he needs Sam's help. He has contracted grayscale . . . on his penis.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Samwell Tarly
Kudos: 9





	The Squire With Healing Hands

**Author's Note:**

> A crack fic that technically takes place in show cannon a year after season 8 although several book-only things are brought up for the sake of my terrible effort at world building. So if you have not carried on with the show to season 8 (lucky you) or have not read the books some things might be unfamiliar. Except for "Maester Craiston". I made him up. Apparently I just stole Maester Cressen's name.
> 
> Also If you have a penis I could imagine this being uncomfortable. I cannot warn you enough that this story contains someone cutting skin off of a penis.

It was an especially cold day at Castle Black. The winds were fierce and Sam feared a storm was coming. Jon had been gone for weeks. He was off at the New Gift while the Wildlings build their settlement. Sam couldn’t help but worry. Jon had been so despondent, even though it’s been over a year since he has been once again forced to take the black. It figures. The Dragon Queen was a monster, but he had loved her all the same.

  
As Sam sat at his desk reading letters and books by candlelight, he heard horses. He threw on a cloak and went to see who it was, hoping it was Jon and his companions. Sam wasn’t truly a Maester. He had dropped out of the Citadel. In title, he was still only a squire. But the new Maester, Maester Craiston, was a useless drunk and Sam had taken it upon himself to fulfil most of his duties. As such, he has business knowing who had just ridden into the courtyard.

  
There were three riders in black and one white direwolf. Ghost. Sam was worried he was going to slip on the icy steps down from the rookery, but he refused to take his time. He had to greet his best friend. As Sam entered the courtyard the rider with the mop of thick, curly hair noticed him.

  
“Sam?” Jon said, with an air of excitement that was quickly replaced by something more serious. “Sam, I need you to come with me to my chambers. We need to talk.” Sam was worried. “Alright, Jon.”

When Sam and Jon arrived in Jon’s quarters in the Lord Commander’s Tower Jon was quick to light a fire and gesture for Sam to sit as Jon removed his cloak, which was black under all the snow. The mood was tense. Sam purposely turned his eyes away as Jon began to remove more than just his cloak. It figures Jon would want to change out of the clothes he had been wearing for weeks. They must have been filthy.

  
“Sam,” Jon said with a tone urgent enough to force Sam to look his way. Half cast in shadow, Jon was only in his breeches. Even in the dismal lighting, Sam could make out the brutal stab wounds that covered Jon’s chest. Sam was confused. Jon must be cold. Sam was in five layers of wool and fur and still he wished he had chosen the armchair closer to the fire. “Jon?” Sam questioned.  
“You cured a man of greyscale. Jorah Mormont. Is this true?” pressed Jon. Sam had never told Jon directly. In fact, few people knew. He wanted to tell Jon but figured Jorah Mormont’s connection to the Dragon Queen would upset Jon. “It is true,” Sam replied, unsure of how Jon knew or why this was relevant.

  
Jon began to untie his breeches. Sam nearly screamed. “What are you doing!” Sam turned his eyes vehemently to the floor. A blush stormed across his face, although it would be undetectable in this light.

  
“Sam. Look at me,” growled Jon. Sam shook his head. Jon continued, “I need your help Sam, you are the only one who can help me.”

  
Jon moved into the light of the fire in front of Sam and Sam looked up. Jon’s breeches were undone, and his member hung out. It was grey and . . . cracked. Sam gasped.

  
“Grayscale?” asked Sam, although he knew the answer. “How?”

  
“I bedded a wildling woman when I was drunk on ale in the gift,” replied Jon. “The next morning . . .” Jon trailed off.

  
“I thought the wildings murdered all children with greyscale?” Sam questioned. He had heard as much from the wildling Princess, Val. Gruffly, Jon replied, “I thought so too. I mean, they usually do.”  
Flustered, Sam asked, “So what should we do, Jon?” Jon placed the palm of his hand on his forehead. He looked exhausted. “I need you to cure me, Sam. Like you did before.”

An hour had passed as Sam opened the door to Jon’s chambers, huffing from lack of breath. His arms were full of tools, bottles, and whatnot. Jon was sitting in front of the fire. Sam handed Jon a bottle. “What is this?” questioned Jon. Sam replied grimly, “Rum. I don’t have access to Mr. Craiston’s supply of milk of the poppy.” But from the smell of Jon’s breathe it was clear he had already had some wine in his absence. The tiny amount of confidence he had the first time he cured greyscale was gone. This was not just anyone. This was his best friend.  
He handed Jon a rolled-up rag to bite on. He kneeled in front of Jon, the chair repositioned to provide the best lighting from the fire. Jon had redone his breeches and Sam undid them again, trying hard to keep his fingers from trembling. He examined his friend’s cock. The grey scale had not spread far. Still, it overtook his entire pubic region. No hair remained. It was stiff. He figured the greyscale kept it permanently erect.

  
With one gloved hand, Sam took Jon’s cock at the base. With the other, he held a pair of tongs. “I reckon you know this is going to hurt. A lot,” said Sam. With slightly slurred words, Jon replied, “I trust you Sam.” Sam started at the base, figuring it would be less sensitive. He ripped off one piece of skin. It resembled a burnt log more than flesh. Jon breathed erratically through his nose, barley managing to stifle screams of pain. Sam dropped the single charred piece into a bowl. This was going to be a long night.  
Sam worked his way up the shaft, taking breaks every so often for both their sakes. Jon was seemingly becoming slightly desensitized to the pain. He still had to withhold a scream with every piece he removed, but it had lessened in intensity a little.

  
Finally, Sam had made it to the tip. He looked up at Jon, scared for his friend. Jon wore a face of determination. He nodded at Sam, as if to say, “Do it.”

  
Sam held Jon’s cock with his fingers, just below the infected area. Presumably, this is where his foreskin would have been. At this point, Jon was clamping a rag to his pubic area with out hand to slow the bleeding. The flesh on his cock that had been freed of infected tissue was raw and bloody. With Jon’s other hand he gripped the arm of the chair so hard his knuckles were white. It was a wonder Jon hadn’t passed out from the pain. Sam looked up and down his friend’s long member, in awe of how much of the infected flesh he had removed.

  
Sam decided to count. “One, two, three.” He ripped off one piece of flesh and dropped it into the bowl. John made a muffled squeaking noise. There were still several more to go. Sam could feel Jon’s cock throbbing in pain.

  
Again. “One, two, Three.” The rag that had been in Jon’s mouth dropped to the floor, wet with saliva. Jon let out a sharp groan. The crusty flesh made a clattering sound as it fell into the bowl.  
“One, two, three.” Jon also let go of the bloody rag. Sam was shocked when Jon grabbed onto Sam’s shoulders with both hands. His grip was so hard Sam could have used a rag to bite down on himself. It would surely leave bruises.

  
Finally, the last piece was directly on the tip. Not only was Jon’s cock throbbing, but his whole body was spasming. Sam took patience to grab hold of the infection with his tongs, careful to not accidentally pinch the flesh underneath. He ripped it off. Jon yelped and fell back to the bed, heaving. “Is that it?” he huffed. His chest hurled up and down dramatically. Sam replied, also short of breath, “The painful part. I have some ointment.”

  
Sam picked up the bloody rag with aching shoulders and clamped down on Jon’s cock with both hands, trying to stop the bleeding as Jon had failed to do. When the bleeding stopped Sam shuffled closer on his knees to Jon, who still lay on the bed. He picked up a bowl of ointment and took a handful. Sam took Jon’s member in his hand and began to stroke to cover every inch in ointment. He then placed the bowl on the floor and took another handful. With one hand Sam resumed stroking the shaft. With the other he rubbed Jon’s balls, careful to cover every infected inch of Jon with ointment.

  
Once he had rubbed Jon thoroughly Sam carefully bandaged his cock. He made sure to be gentle and not bind his cock to tight. Jon had experienced enough pain.  
Sam was so focused he hadn’t noticed his friend had fallen asleep. Nor did he realize Ghost had been scratching at the door, presumably sensing Jon’s distress. He tidied up and let the direwolf in as he left. Sam went back to his chambers to get some sleep as well.


End file.
